Untitled iii.

My country is a burden

My cross,
nothing more than
something to bear

I would rather be
A scarlet letter
than wrap the white
collar around my neck.

When a soldier goes to war,

does he know who he is defending?
me,

a stranger,
a cancerous body
left for dead in WWII,

a ring of roses on the Pacific ocean,
I barely let off a stench;

because I

was never oppressed, I
the poster child of privilege
puking my own name
into a porcelain throne to fit

into the clothes my mother
bought me

clothes
that I wore to America, where
the same people who told me
it was no longer
kosher to follow
the Ten Commandments

turned me into a minority
though I have yet to figure out
what that means

and even still,
this pain is nothing compared to
the pain of
starvation

even still,
my pain is nothing when it is
self-inflicted

but I
am selfish

I, the poster child of privilege
spitting bile into
a silver spoon

I defend
my choices fiercely

counting each stolen
race, gender, class
privilege

as a crucifixion nail.

Heavy with pride,
a made-to-order
sign of the times.